


A Cup of Tea

by bookjunkiecat



Series: Longings [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Death, Gen, Loneliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2016-12-14
Packaged: 2018-09-08 14:49:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8849185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: The year of the awful Christmas party at 221B. Molly is feeling lonely and tries to cheer up everyone around her. Her first meeting with Mycroft.





	

**Author's Note:**

> There is mention of a dead body, but if you're watching Sherlock and reading fanfic you don't mind that, so no worries.  
> Also, I am self-editing, so please forgive any mistakes. I'm not British (I just want to be) and that no doubt bleeds through, although I try to catch any glaring inaccuracies.

          Unsurprisingly, the holidays could be lonely. Molly knew this better than anyone. Her mother had died when she was twelve; following three years fight against breast cancer, then her dad had succumbed to lupus when she was in her first year of uni. Her younger brother David was grand, whenever he was available, they would spend the holidays together. Unfortunately, he was a researcher in Greenland, and he didn’t get home often. Their dad’s mum was the only grandparent alive, but she lived in Scotland in a care center and had a faulty memory; cousins tried, but they saw one another so rarely that they tended to neglect Molly. She had heard Nigel telling his elderly mother that Molly doubtless lived a fast-paced life in the City and was bored at their pace of life in the Midlands. It wasn’t true, but her feelings were hurt and she decided that if they didn’t want her, she didn’t want them.

          Friends filled the gap nicely, but even the best of friends were bound to forget you sometimes. Especially if you were quiet and modest like Molly, and you didn’t remind them that you had no plans for Christmas. Meena could always be depended on to invite her over, but this year Meena was dating a new bloke and they had decided to go on holiday in Jerusalem. So there was no guaranteed invite from Meena.

          Molly decided that the best thing to do was to make the holiday season festive for others. She came to work each day with a bigger than usual smile; she wore her cheeriest Christmas jumpers; her co-workers were delighted by a Secret Santa that snuck in to leave tiny, wrapped gifts on their desks. Selflessly, she not only volunteered to work Christmas Day and Boxing Day, but signed on to be on-call on Christmas night. There was an animal shelter (where she had adopted Toby) that benefited from her time and effort organizing a food drive for the animals. And the clinic where she volunteered once a month was the unexpected beneficiary of her largess when she took the money she would have spent on travel and gifts for her cousins and instead bought Christmas crackers, biscuits and sweets to brighten everyone’s week.

          Molly Hooper worked very hard to ensure that she didn’t have time to be lonely. She waved Meena and Harry off at Gatwick, she watered Meena’s plants and collected her mail; she ran errands for her neighbors, she invited lonely Mr. Adamian from across the hall over for tea, and she accepted all the small invitations she received.

          Really, it was a very happy Christmas season. She hadn’t been seeing anyone since the disaster with Jim from IT, and so she was asked to make even numbers at two dinner parties (neither single man was compatible with her—she might have been invisible, for all the second man took notice of her) but the dinners were tasty. There was the lovely carol concert at the church she sometimes went to, and she got roped into helping with the elderly parishioners’ bingo extravaganza.

          Christmas Day might have passed in relative silence, if it hadn’t been for John Watson’s casual text inviting her to 221B for drinks.

          Suicides and accidents always seemed to peak around the holidays, or maybe it was just that it seemed even more sad than usual; but this year people must be feeling more hopeful than usual. There hadn’t been any new cases in the last few days. Whatever the case, she hadn’t had any unexpected admissions, and she was all caught up on paperwork. Most of the day had been spent gossiping with those others in the hospital who were pulling holiday duty but having a slow day also. The rest of the time she sat in her office, listening to Christmas music and reading paperback romances.

          During her lunch break she called David, who was having mulled wine with his neighbors. “Bit early in the day for a drink, isn’t it?”

          He laughed, “Not a bit of it, Molls! Never too early to pass around the Christmas spirits. We’re soaking it all up with brunch, anyway. What are you up to?”

          “Oh, having my lunch, then it’s back to work. After I leave here I’m going home to freshen up, some friends invited me round to theirs for drinks.”

          “’S too bad you pulled the Christmas shift…didn’t you work Boxing Day last year? And New Year’s?”

          “Well, I don’t have kids, you see, so this way my colleagues can all spend time with theirs. And I don’t usually go out for New Year’s, you know that David.”

          Her brother scoffed, “Only cos you’re always working! But I guess as long as you’re happy…”

          “I am,” she lied stoutly.

          They talked for a bit more, then she hurried to finish her lunch and it was back to the quiet of the morgue.

          Six o’clock came and she shut everything down, struggled into her coat, hat, scarf, and gloves, and made her way home. John had said they would be starting at eight, and to come any time. She got home, fed Toby, treating him with a whole can of cat food, and took a lovely hot shower. Desperately wishing that she could text Meena and ask for fashion advice, she stood in front of her wardrobe in her robe and bit her lip.

          The occasion called for something festive, and a bit more sophisticated than a jumper and slacks. Everything that seemed warm enough was a bit too prudish and dull, and everything that seemed glamorous was too skimpy or inappropriate for the season and weather. But she didn’t normally dress up, and it would be nice to make Sherlock sit up and take notice of her as a woman for once, even if he would (no doubt) deride the size of her breasts or her lips. If she could surprise him just once, that would be nice.

          Taking a chance, she pulled on a pair of tummy control knickers, her best black push up bra, nylons (which she loathed) and then put her robe back on and sat down to do her hair and apply cosmetics with a liberal hand. Zipping herself into the dress she had bought for Vera’s hen party a few years back she held her breath; it fit, and she turned in front of the mirror on the back of her bedroom door. It was a figure hugging black velvet like material that ended just below her knees, with rhinestone trim around the top of the bodice, and thin rhinestone straps. She fished out the rhinestone hoops Auntie Rose had given her for Christmas last year, and slipped them on, smiling at her reflection. At the time, Molly had thought the earrings were a bit big and gaudy, but they seemed fun for a party. She looked quite sophisticated, really. But maybe it was a bit too dark for a Christmas party? She solved that by strapping on a pair of red patent leather heels and adding a small silver gift bow to her hair. There! She looked quite nice, really. She snapped a quick photo of herself in the mirror and emailed it to Meena. _Off to drinkies with friends_ , she wrote, _I think I did pretty good without you here. Happy Christmas!_

The walk along the icy pavement to the tube station seemed daunting, especially in heels, so she flagged a taxi, and settled in with her bag of gifts. Molly liked the idea of parties, but she was shy and introverted, so often she would talk herself out of attending, but tonight she intended to go and have a good time. Only one drink however, since she was on-call.

 

******

 

          “You do look lovely, dear. Makes me miss being that age,” Mrs. Hudson smiled naughtily, “I was quite the goer when I was younger. There was a sexy young man when I was living in Santorini, Tony his name was…oh, this was years before Mr. Hudson. Tony was mad about me, and I was mad about him. At it like rabbits we were.”

          Molly choked on her red wine and regarded Sherlock and John’s landlady incredulously. Part of her suspected the older lady of attempting to distract Molly from the recent contretemps with Sherlock (the prat), but she looked fairly serious (if slightly tipsy), but either way she welcomed something to focus on besides her own embarrassment and hurt feelings. Why did she let Sherlock Holmes get to her? He was sexy in that pale, brooding Byronic way of his, and ridiculously brainy, but he could be such a-a dick. She snorted indignantly and took a healthy glug of her wine. Although the apology and the kiss had been unexpectedly nice of him.

          Mrs. Hudson finally stopped talking about her checkered past and went to fetch a tray of nibbles. Greg Lestrade sidled up and leaned in, smiling at her quite sexily, “Hey there Molly, Happy Christmas.”

          She flushed and squeaked back a greeting; this wasn’t the first time Lestrade had gotten flirty with her, but she wasn’t sure if he was currently with his wife or not. They were so on again off again. And she just never knew how to respond to flirting. Luckily Greg was a friendly bloke, and he did most of the talking, so she just smiled at him and let her eyes wander over the party.

          Well, perhaps “party” was a bit of a stretch: Sherlock, John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, herself, John’s current girlf—oops, no, apparently not. There she went. Molly wondered what it was about John Watson that all his relationships ended so precipitously. Probably Sherlock’s fault. Sherlock was brooding over his mobile and ignoring everyone, John had followed…Sarah? Alice? Jane? downstairs but even now she could hear him dashing back up. Mrs. Hudson had refilled her wine glass when she wasn’t looking, and Molly thought about polishing it off, but since she was technically on duty, she put the glass down and went in search of water and food.

          John and Mrs. Hudson did their best to keep the party going, but Sherlock and his moping hovered over the group like a black cloud. After a bit, Lestrade left (probably looking for action) and Molly shyly distributed her gifts and then took her leave shortly thereafter. Mrs. Hudson waved away her offers to help clean up, and Molly had no doubt that soon the older woman would be down in her flat, leaving “the boys” to their own devices. Molly rather suspected they liked it that way.

          John at least called her a cab and walked her down when it arrived. Sherlock didn’t notice when she took her leave, but she said goodbye anyway.

          The cab ride back was not nearly as fun as the ride there. She wasn’t filled with anticipation and the spirit of the season; instead she slumped back in the corner and wondered why she had wasted such a very long time longing for Sherlock Holmes. He was barely tolerable as a friend, much less as a love interest. Resolving to give up pursuing him, she paid the cabbie, returned his Christmas greeting, and hurried upstairs. She wanted to divest herself of her finery, crawl into her flannel pajamas and snuggle on the couch with Toby. Maybe she would have some popcorn and watch DVDs.

 

******

 

          “Sorry to call you out so late, brother mine. But I thought you’d want to see if it is indeed her.”

          Molly heard the tall, scary man call Sherlock brother and barely managed to keep the look of amazement off her face. Sherlock was a sharp scalpel in the hands of a reckless youth; this man was a precision instrument in the hands of a surgeon. Instinctively, she knew she wanted to keep on his good side. That much quiet, restrained power was only harnessed by someone frighteningly in control of themselves, and backed by ominous forces.

          Despite the layers she wore under her Christmas jumper, Molly shivered, as much from the chill of the autopsy room as from the circumstances and the company.

          It was a bizarre way to spend Christmas night; watching her (mostly…ish) former crush intently study the nude body of the woman with the bashed face, while his terrifying brother…watched her? Molly realized that while she was watching Sherlock, his brother was watching them both. If he was anything like his younger brother, she didn’t like to think what he observed.

          Once Sherlock had left, Molly went to cover the woman, giving her the last bit of dignity she could expect now that she was dead, and was aware that the elder Holmes paused for just a moment before he followed Sherlock out into the hall. Left to herself, she put the unknown woman back in cold storage and tidied up, washing her hands, turning off lights and was about to return to her office to have a cup of tea and gather her things when she caught a whiff of cigarette smoke and frowned.

          “Bloody Sherlock,” she groused, heading for the doors to the hallway, “he knows better than to smoke in here.” Not that rules had ever stopped him before.

          Only it wasn’t Sherlock that she caught out in the hall; it was his brother who stood with the evidence of wrongdoing in one hand and his mobile in the other, watching as Sherlock rapidly disappeared in the distance, coat collar up and looking very much alone. Glancing up at the elder brother, she caught a look on his face which suddenly made him seem a lot less scary. Impulsively, she invited him to share a cup of tea. “The kettle’s ready, and I have some lovely…” she trailed off, aghast that she had done this terrible thing, and torn between worry and laughter at the look on his face. Well that made two of them.

          Somehow, the two of them settled at her desk as if this were a normal visit, and she busied herself with the tea things. She chattered nervously, telling him that she loved her tea of the month club membership, and she had bought her own mini-fridge to keep in her office so she could keep milk and sweets. Her chatter carried them through until they were each sitting with a cup in their hands and she popped open a tin which was still half full of an array of home-baked goodies.

          Her guest looked suddenly more human and she smiled, “I made these myself,” she said proudly.

          “Are those Russian tea-cakes?” He asked, leaning forward, and she held the tin out closer to him. “They are; I found the recipe in an old magazine when I was sitting in a hospital waiting room years ago. It’s one of the first things I ever made all on my own.”

          “When your mother was dying?”

          She stared at him, taken completely aback, even though she had suspected he shared what must be a family talent for deduction.

          He apologized immediately, “Please forgive me, I’m tired or I shouldn’t have brought up such a sensitive subject with someone I do not know.”

          “I’m used to it,” she admitted, “Sherlock does the same thing. All the time.”

          “I’m not usually so crass. My younger brother loves to show off, but I try to keep my observations to myself, for the most part.”

          “Well,” she observed reasonably, “as you said, it is late, and of course you’re worried about Sherlock.”

          A raised brow and then he asked carefully, “Why would I be worried about him?”

          Molly gave him the same look she used to give David when he was trying to lie to her. “Because you had to call him out in the middle of the night to identify the body of a woman that he knew intimately enough to recognize without seeing her face. Because Sherlock doesn’t _do_ intimate. Because he was smoking in the hospital, because it’s late, it’s Christmas, and because he’s an addict.”

          The elder Holmes sat back in his chair, placed his tea cup with a precise click back in the saucer and regarded her as if she had suddenly risen in his estimation. “I can see why my brother values your companionship. It’s late, and I should be going. Can I offer you a ride home?”

          “No, thank you, I have to finish up some paperwork and then I’ll call a cab. It was kind of you to offer.” Molly snapped the lid back on the tin and made an impulsive decision. “Please take these with my compliments. Happy Christmas.”

          She nearly squirmed under his regard. Finally he took the tin, offered her his thanks and a grave rejoinder for the season and disappeared, dapper in his suit, top coat and umbrella. What a very strange man.

 

******

 

          Nearly an hour later, when she left, she discovered a black Jaguar waiting. The driver’s side window rolled silently down and the driver peered at her, “Miss Hooper?”

          “Y-yes?” She wondered if she should be nervous. She took a half step back, and considered running.

          The man opened the door and stepped out, “Mr. Holmes asked me to wait for you.” He extended a gloved hand, in which he was holding a card. “I’m to drive you home.”

          Cautiously she took the card. It was heavy ivory cardstock, very evidently top quality, with black embossed lettering. Mycroft Holmes was printed on the face and nothing else. She turned it over and saw a bold scrawl on the opposite side. _It’s the least I can offer in return for the cakes._

          Relieved, and a bit charmed, and maybe a tad bit alarmed, she tucked the card in her pocket and let the driver open the door to the back seat for her. She wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed to find the back seat unoccupied. It was warm and smelled deliciously of well-cared for leather and just a whiff of expensive cologne.

          The car purred off and she sat back in wonder. This had been a most unusual day.


End file.
